


Idling

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, M/M, Post S3, Prompt Fic, angst like whoa, kriskenshin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:18:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regret has a very particular sound to Martha Hudson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idling

Regret has a very particular sound to Martha Hudson. For many years, it was the crash of waves on a Florida beach. Salt air ruffling her hair and smears of blood staining her hands. She’d never told Sherlock how very deep she’d been dragged into her husband’s business, but she imagined he knew. Sherlock always knew. (Well. He knew when it came to _other_ people. About himself—about his own heart—he was rather an ignorant fool, wasn’t he?) Time had wiped the slate on those particular regrets. Florida was so very far away, Mr. Hudson was long gone, and the horrors she’d been witness to had the washed-out quality of a bad dream. So regret wasn’t the sound of a gunshot or the slide of a blade against fabric or even the blistering cries of a man just this side of broken.

No. Regret was the shuffle of feet against the floorboards above her head, the desperate trill of a violin in the night, the nervous tap of fingers against pressed trousers—the sound of a brilliant mind idling in the dark, waiting for the return of his sun.

Martha didn’t begrudge John his choice. Of course not. There was the baby to think of, and Mary was a nice enough girl when she wasn’t running around shooting folks. Martha, of all people, understood the occasional necessity of pulling a gun. (That didn’t mean Mary would find a warm reception in 221A anytime soon, however; tea and biscuits were reserved for people who didn’t try to kill her favorite tenants.)

So no, she didn’t begrudge John his attempt at domestic bliss, but she ached all the same. She ached for what they’d lost—all of them—and each painful reminder twisted inside her. The uneasy fidget Mary had adopted. How John’s eyes had turned dull and tired. The way Sherlock’s flickering spark, once so electric it burned everything he touched, seemed to have fizzled and faded. 

She thought of the heady first days when everything was slammed doors and violent bursts of laughter and vicious rows that never outlived the next wail of a siren or ping of a text. She thought of the way Sherlock and John had moved around each other, orbiting like planets—a gravitational pull left unspoken, but undeniable. She thought of the way they’d seemed to fit, from the very beginning. How easy and right it had been. And she wished, how very much _she wished_ it could be different.

But John was gone, and with him the lovely sounds of life. In his place, the muffled tones of grief and the sullen whisper of regret.

 

...

**Author's Note:**

> Ouch. This depressing nugget brought to you via post-s3 feels and kriskenshin's fic prompt, "the wisdom of Mrs. Hudson": http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/post/77773406675/suggestion-for-a-new-ask-fic-prompt-the-wisdom-of
> 
> Thanks for reading. As always, feedback appreciated.


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